Case
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: Sequel to "Christmastime." Rated M for brief sexual content. Sherlock's got a case! Will he be able to handle it? Why did this look better in my head? Sorry for crappiness, I promise the next one will be better!


**Case**

(Sequel to "Christmastime")

"Sherlock, get dressed and come have breakfast."

"No."

"Sherlock," John looked at me sternly. "Just do it."

"No!" Out of boredom, I was being petulant. I'd been letting John push me around the last few days—in fact, since I'd been home. I'd obeyed him as he fed me and talked me through symptoms. But I wasn't allowed to leave with anyone except Mycroft and therefore, my outings were limited. Of course, I was happy to spend time with John. But I was sexually frustrated, if you will.

It was three days after Christmas, three days after I'd wrapped myself up for John and told Mrs. Hudson I was back and alive. All I'd wanted was a little sex, a little bit of John _inside me_, but John, being too much a doctor, had suppressed his _own_ emotions and had elected instead to take care of me and _not_ have sex until I'd gained back more weight. How a man could possibly refuse the man he loves, I don't know. I was under the impression that when men are aroused, there is no option to stop.

John sighed at my petulance. I'd just showered, and was only dressed in my silk robe. My damp hair was making the pillow behind my head wet, but I didn't care. I was bored. Too bored to get dressed, too bored to eat. I wanted John to have sex with me, and I wasn't about to do anything else until he complied.

"Fine, Sherlock," John finally turned back to the kitchen with an impatient grumble. "But if you don't get dressed and eat something, you'll get no where in your campaign to have sex with me."

I ran my hands through my hair and groaned. John was right. Eating regular meals would allow me to gain weight, which would forward me towards my goal. I wanted sex, John wanted weight. Well, there wouldn't be one without the other.

I got up, and John turned around just as I dropped my robe. He'd been nice enough to get me clothes, which were folded neatly on the coffee table. I didn't miss the sharp intake of breath at seeing me naked for the second time (this time was warmer because I still felt the heat of the water), and I immediately had an idea. After all, I did say that there was no way an aroused man could stop himself…I certainly wouldn't object to being pressed face-first into the couch, John's hands around my erection, cold lube helping to penetrate my tight ass… So, I began a sort of reverse strip tease. Because of course I know what a strip tease was. You couldn't imagine the kinds of situations I've put myself in by being a consulting detective.

Anyway, I started with my underwear, bending slowly, methodically, pulling them on with ease. These were a pair of smaller briefs made of silk, which were a bit tight. I heard John give a satisfied "oooh" and I suppressed a chuckle. I could practically _feel_ John's arousal from across the room. I continued with my pants, pulling them up and buttoning them closed with a few quick movements of my slender fingers. These pants were a size too big and sagged until I pulled my belt taut. John's breathing was escalating, and I knew about his erection almost as if I could feel it brushing against me. I was starting to get hard as well, but I struggled to compose myself. No need for the great Sherlock Holmes to jerk off to the sounds of the man he loves like some bloody schoolboy.

I had just picked up my shirt when John's cell phone rang. I turned around, noting that John was indeed hard and noticing also he had to close his eyes and calm himself before answering the phone. "Watson." His voice was hard, military. Trying to cover up his arousal, no doubt. I curled my lower lip, pressing my teeth against it, running my hand up and down my smooth chest until John had to turn away.

I giggled a bit before striding over until I was standing between the two chairs. I picked up the comb on the side table and began to run it through my wet curls, noting in the mirror how thin my face looked—thinner than usual still—and I thought about how much John was right, and how much breakfast might be a good idea; John's eggs smelled _heavenly_, and I was starving…but then, I heard an interesting bit of John's phone conversation.

"A case? But Greg…" Ah! My face lit up. Lestrade, then. I sat in my chair and pulled on my socks, purposely leaving my shirt for last. "Yes, I _know_ I'm all you've got because he's gone. Yes I _know_ you need me, I just—right, okay, Greg. Right. Okay." John was writing something down. Maybe an address? I couldn't guess, and couldn't really hope to. I liked to have all my eggs in a basket instead of counting chickens before they hatched. Heh. Proverbs. "Okay, I'll see you in a bit. Goodbye." John hung up and went to put his coat on.

"What?" I asked, although I already knew. I threw my shirt on, not even tucking it in. It was my favorite purple shirt. I pulled my jacket on.

"No, Sherlock, you're staying here." John put on his coat. "Lestrade wants me at a crime scene, and you're _dead_, you idiot! You can't just _show up_!"

"Like _hell_ I'm staying!" I shouted, my hands on John's shoulders. "I'm _bored_, John. I don't want to _be_ bored! You're denying me sex," I reasoned calmly. "At least let me have this case."

John studied me for a moment, and then relented, his hand cradling my cheek. His hands were warm and smelled like scrambled eggs. I nuzzled his hand, this warmth that I would never tire of. I was always so cold. It was as if John was my warmth, the warmth my body was missing. _Head and heart_. "All right, love. But _please_," he held my gaze, his eyes firm and unwavering. I knew I'd won, so I was ready to uphold any conditions John might have. "Promise to eat a little," I groaned, about to protest, but John wasn't done, "and go easy on them, okay? Donovan and Anderson are sorry. They've _been_ sorry for three years. _Be gentle_, Sherlock." He pulled me into a long kiss. And let me tell you that there is nothing _sexier_ than seeing a man stand on tiptoes to kiss you. "Be gentle like I know you can be." These words were whispered right against my lips.

I smiled. _Oh_ how could I disobey? When John Watson practically _kissed_ the command into me? "We'll talk about the eating," I breathed, fully entranced as I pulled on my coat. "I'll be as gentle as a kitten."

John took my hand and squeezed it. "Good boy."

"I can be a naughty boy, too," I murmured in my deep baritone, trying to nip his ear. But the doctor pulled me down the stairs of our flat and hailed a cab before I could do it. He let go of my hand and smiled smugly up at me.

"Bastard," I muttered, turning away in mock anger. He laughed.

The second we got to Scotland Yard, it was like old times. Like I'd never been gone at all. You wouldn't have been able to tell the difference on the surface. John was on point because he figured it would lesson the shock. But really, I am a foot taller than him at least. Couldn't soften the shock for more than a moment, really, but I let John have his way. For what reason exactly, I will never be sure. I will never really know _why_ of all people I obey John Watson (mostly) without fuss, and the only (illogical) reason I can come up with is that I love him.

And so many bad things would happen to me—done by my own hand—if he left.

The second difference about my great return to Scotland Yard was that all the detectives were staring right at me like zombies. Like the brainless idiots they were, really, never mind zombies. But regardless, they were staring. I was cool under their gaze—my attitude had not changed much—but I was relieved all the same when we were safely inside Lestrade's office.

I almost burst out laughing at the detective inspector's gaping mouth. He looked something like the fish I used to catch on the end of white yarn when I was a lad years ago. His face was like the gasping fish, searching for oxygen in the dry air. I probably would've laughed aloud if I hadn't felt the world begin to tilt and forced myself to find a chair and sit before I fainted. I loosened my scarf, and in fact took it off completely, pocketing it. John was watching me, and then only had eyes for Lestrade. Right. We weren't alone in our flat anymore, and neither one of us was ready for the big "coming out of the closet" moment.

"What's the problem, Lestrade?" I asked, my voice level.

"Y—Sherlock," Lestrade sounded a lot like that gasping fish. If fish had vocal chords, anyway. I watched his face, waiting for his thoughts to pass his lips in a coherent fashion. "Sher—how can you be—y'dead—y-yer alive. You're _alive_! Brilliant!" He beamed. "How'd you _do_ it?"

"A simple magic trick," I replied, the corners of my mouth twitching into a quick smile. "The mechanics aren't important. I can tell you I wasn't idle for three years, but I don't want to bore you with details." I sat back in the chair, my hands pressed together, thumbs at my lips. I was back in my element, slightly dizzy or not.

"Bore me with details," Lestrade begged. "I'm dying to know."

I sighed. "The short version is that Moriarty had an extensive criminal network. And yes, he was real, by the way."

"I know," Lestrade sighed. "We found the body."

I nodded. "I erased his alias, Richard Brook, from the internet and erased his criminal network from the map. I returned to Baker Street about a week before Christmas."

"Why didn't you let anyone know?" This was Donovan. She and Anderson were standing quietly on either side of Lestrade.

I was about to answer when John cut in. "He needed medical attention. In fact, he still does. I have him under constant observation."

"Why?" This was Anderson. Despite my promise to be gentle, this kitten wanted claws right now. Claws in Anderson's face.

But John handled this one, too. Probably because he sensed the daggers my glare was throwing. Smart man. "For malnutrition."

At three confused faces, I took over. "It probably isn't common knowledge I don't eat or sleep while on a case, John."

Three faces were stunned. "Idiot," Lestrade muttered.

"I did eat some," I explained. "Nothing substantial. Every four or five days, or after the completion of a case, I'd eat a small meal—mostly toast or fruit—and then sleep a few hours and move on. Moriarty's network was worldwide. I was constantly dragged around the globe. I assure you again that I was not idle, and I can tell you that Moriarty's influences are gone. There is no more Moriarty." As I finished, I felt weak again. Even after a week or so of three square meals a day, I was still malnourished enough to faint easily. And the fact I was now bothering to exert myself didn't help matters. I massaged my temples between my fingers, cursing myself for running out without breakfast.

The detectives were quiet as I finished. Then, Lestrade leaned forward. "He okay?" This was directed at John. I felt the noise echo in my head, my ears hot and burning.

"Yeah, if badly nourished," John replied, a strong hand on my shoulder. "The idiot ran out without breakfast." The unsaid words which only I heard were: "Which is bad for him right now. It's not good to skip meals, you git."

Okay, I've learned my lesson. Let's get food now, John. I need to eat before I hear a word about this case. I calculated where John's arm was and rested my head against it weakly, damn what they might say. I let a soft moan free, hoping that John might understand.

"He needs something to eat," John commanded. "_Now_."

I had a vague impression of Donovan and Anderson and Lestrade moving about. Within minutes, the weight of a bagel with cream cheese greeted my lap. I didn't particularly like bagels, but John squeezed my shoulder, a simple message: eat or suffer.

I chose to eat. Having no strength wasn't worth any lapse in brainpower. And anyway, I would be of no use to anyone if I couldn't speak from weakness, brains aside. Half the bagel was gone before John let Lestrade talk to me about the case.

Within minutes, I was back to doing what I loved. My head swam with facts, and I detected for long hours, forcing myself to the edge of comfort before I gave in to John's offers of a meal. It was a late teatime when I finally had to eat—regrettably, I was unsteady on my feet from weakness and was in no shape at all to chase down our crook. John made sure we ate enough—well, at least that _I_ had—before he let me do my thing again. Admittedly, I was never happier to have dinner resting on my stomach than while I wrestled with the acrobatic thief who had, unintentionally, stolen a man's life.

Despite the amount I'd eaten, which was quite a lot by my standards, I begged John to cook me something while we were waiting for Lestrade to get our paperwork in order.

We were sitting in Lestrade's office, waiting for him to return. John was checking my pulse and otherwise giving me a quick physical while I obeyed him patiently. While he was checking my blood pressure, my stomach growled, which made John giggle. "We did just eat two hours ago, Sherlock," he pointed out, chuckling.

"I know," I looked away, embarrassed. "I'm hungry. Can't you make me something?"

John's lips touched my forehead. "I'm hungry, too, love. I'll make us a _real_ dinner once we get home."

Needless to say, I was back on the force and back in the good graces of the detectives of Scotland Yard. Though I couldn't really starve myself while on a case, at least not yet, I was no longer bored.

And that was good for everyone, the wall included.

_Why do I feel like this sucks? -_-' Ummm…review?_


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